George's Patronus
by Sigan
Summary: Almost a year after the Battle of Hogwarts, George Weasley's life has almost returned to normal, or about as normal as it can get after losing a twin brother. After another night of drowning his sorrows at the local pub he staggers home, but a wicked chill in the air promises that his night won't be ending as planned. Happy memories are hard to come by for the last Weasley twin.
1. Chapter 1

George Weasley was a respected business magnate, and well known all through the wizarding world for his joke shop, Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. His name was synonymous with fun, laughter, and all sorts of gags and pranks, ranging from harmless, to utterly death-defying. Of course, like most of the wealthy and famous, he was possessed of impeccable business sense, and a rather cutthroat attitude when it came to competitors, such as when he single handedly gutted Zonko's Joke Shop and established his second place of business upon its remains, which had reopened briefly after the war. That said, George Weasley was a bit of an anomaly to many; even his closest friends and family had found him to be rather distant and cut off. It was really no surprise, given what had happened during the Battle of Hogwarts.

During the battle, George's twin brother, Fred, had died, and left the notoriously mischievous Weasley twins one man down. Since then, George had spent a great deal of his immense fortune in the tavern. It wasn't uncommon for his name to appear in the Daily Prophet when a bar brawl broke out, but the scandals were hardly damning to his reputation as the Wizarding world's foremost manufacturer of joke merchandise. The brilliance and ingenuity of the Weasley twins, coupled with George's aggressive business tactics, and his reputation as a survivor of the Battle of Hogwarts, gave young witches and wizards plenty of reason to visit his joke stores. It was especially worth it when they saw the reclusive joke merchandise magnate and war hero out and about, as he had effectively left the day to day affairs of his company to the staff after acquiring Zonko's.

To say his family was concerned for him was an understatement. Molly Weasley, the matron of the Weasley family, often tried to contact George, though nowadays he left most of his mother's letters unopened and unanswered, instead preferring to respond by sending her receipts for deposits into the Weasley's family vault beneath Gringotts, often worth thousands of Galleons apiece. George could hardly drink all the money left over from his business ventures, after all, though it never stopped him from trying.

After a long night of attempting to spend every galleon in his coin purse on alcohol, George Weasley was staggering back home, to his humble loft above the original Weasley's Wizard Wheezes joke shop.

"Nasty chill tonight," George mumbled to himself, pulling his fine cloak tighter about his thin frame as he made his way home.

For all his bravado and all his showmanship, which he often used during important meetings with clientele, George still felt himself ache every time he thought of his brother. It had been less than a year since the death of Fred, and he still had trouble wrapping his head around how incredibly alone he was.

Fred had been George's twin brother. For all intents and purposes, they'd been attached at the hips since birth. They were best friends, confidants, and business partners. Twins in the magical world were more often than not gifted with a certain connection. No, they couldn't read each other's minds, per se, but there was always a certain comfort knowing that someone had your back, no matter what. George could only describe the sensation as a sort of warmth in the back of his mind.

But that warmth had become cold and empty since Fred's death.

The one thing that managed to help keep George's horrific depression at bay was Verity, the shopkeeper under his employ. It was a foolish mistake on his part, but somehow, during a very long shift with her, they'd grown immeasurably close, and though they were hardly an item, they often shared a bed. Still, when asked about his status as a wealthy bachelor, George would either groan irritably or simply say he was single. Women were the last thing on his mind, in recent days.

George felt his hole itch, and he knew that the snow that fell around him on his way home would likely turn to a blizzard, leaving him nearly snowed in the next morning. Usually, that itch in his ear would've been his brother, who would've stated that they should stay up late and try inventing and testing more merchandise… but that was not likely to happen while he was drunk and alone. After all, if he'd been testing the Nosebleed Nougats by himself, he'd have bled out and died during his fourth year at Hogwarts. No, he'd have to wait, or perhaps hire a third party company of testers to experiment and test the latest merchandise, which was rather bland thanks to George's overexertion of himself and his habit of drinking all the time.

He walked Diagon Alley with a sense of reminiscent wonder, which was seriously amplified by the alcohol. He saw many familiar places that had once meant the coming of the school year, and not that he was headed home. It was strange to think how his life had changed.

'I haven't been to the Magical Menagerie since my third year,' George thought, 'I should go inside when I have the time… perhaps release a few of the less dangerous animals as a prank, like me and Fred did way back when.'

That thought made George sick… or perhaps that was the liquor. Either way, he dashed to the side of the alley and held a barrel for support as he felt bile rise in his throat. As he was sick behind those barrels, the last Weasley twin was reminded of the first time he had drank, when he and Fred had sampled their father's firewhisky. It had burned so badly that they had both vomited. Molly Weasley had been furious, but Arthur had laughed and laughed, only bothering to deal out punishment after Molly had crossed her arms and glared him into submission.

He could still remember laughing until his stomach hurt when Fred had been unable to cope with the liquor. Somehow, the memory still made him giggle, and before he could stop himself, George Weasley was clutching onto the barrel for dear life, laughing like a madman as he remembered all the good times he'd had with his dead brother.

The tears from his being sick were now joined by those of genuine sadness, but still he laughed. He laughed at how pointless it all was. He laughed at how horrible the last year had been. He laughed at those years in Hogwarts where he and his brother had felt so stifled by their educations, and how, more than anything, he wished for those years back.

That was when a cold wind brushed past him, and set the hair on the nape of his neck standing straight up. George choked as the cold air became difficult to breath. Within his mind, he felt all of his worst experiences burst forth.

George Weasley was no stranger to the cold, nor to sadness. Of late, his life had been riddled with it… but now, they were both so strong and focused, he found that his legs didn't want to support him. Even the burn of the alcohol in his gut, which he counted on to keep him in a somewhat decent mood, was beginning to fade. What on earth could make _that_ happen?

George only knew of one thing. He cupped a hand around his ear hole and listened carefully. His heart raced, and he thought he heard it a couple times…no… no, it was definitely there, and closing fast.

The sound of a choked, rattling breath caught his good ear. The cold grew so intense that ice crystals formed on George's thick velvet cloak. He shook his head, unable to grasp the severity of his situation. The fire that had burned in his stomach moments ago was now a solid ball of ice cold dread. George stumbled and tripped before dodging into the nearby alleyway between the Magical Menagerie and Gambol and Japes. He pressed himself up against the cold brick as he waited. He breathed as quietly as he could, not even stooping to brush the snow from his fancy robes that had been personally tailored for him.

He drew his wand, recalling the spell needed to repel the foe he had heard.

And then a whole new wave of eerie chilliness washed over him. His breath fogged. It was so cold that the snow, which had been coming down quite thick in the form of fluffy white flakes, had almost completely stopped.

The ragged, terrifying sound of someone choking on air came from down the alleyway he was hiding in. George turned, and there, wrapped in disheveled black robes, with large, scabby hands and a drawn hood, hovered a dementor.

George, while still quite drunk, was a master of defensive magic. His natural gifts with magic had only been amplified by his extensive training, both with Harry Potter and the D.A., and during his tenure as a member of the Order of the Phoenix. He was no stranger to dementors, either.

So when he froze where he stood, unable to draw his wand as the dementor slowly made its way through the snow towards him, he felt as though his life were flashing before his eyes.

Every single good memory he had was a memory of when Fred was still alive. Now that he was gone, all of those good memories were tainted with sadness. Somewhere in the back of George's mind, however, he knew that he was defenseless without a wand in his hand. He reached into his cloak and drew it, and the dementor paused for a moment. Perhaps it knew it was doing wrong. George wasn't familiar with the intricate whiles of creatures that guarded Azkaban.

He took a wide stance and aimed his wand at the dementor. It was a few moments, due to his sluggish brain, but the words came to his lips.

"Expecto Patronum!"

He waited. Usually after uttering the incantation, George was met with the laugh-like yelp of a silvery coyote. Instead, nothing happened, and the dementor advanced a little quicker. The bottom of its robes slid across the snow, leaving no footprints.

"Expecto… Expecto Patronum," George tried again, stumbling backward.

It did no good. Every time he tried to picture a good memory, it turned sour on him. He thought hard, trying to remember the last time he'd actually felt happy, or even laughed… wait a moment, that was it!

George recalled he and his brother, both sneaking drinks of their father's firewhisky. He remembered how long and hard he had laughed, and how happy he had been.

"Expecto Patronum!" he cried.

A slight silver mist was his only reward, and the dementor was feeding on it quickly. He only had a few seconds, at best. George backed away as fast as he could. Once he was out on the main thoroughfare, he could make a break for his shop.

His heel caught on an uneven stone concealed beneath the snow, and the jokester fell backward. The wand soared out of his hand and landed in somewhere under the blanket of snow. George lifted his head, which was throbbing painfully as he heard his brother's words in his head, replayed over and over by the sick power of the dementor.

It drew close as he drunkenly scrambled away. It leaned down over him, and its breath smelled of decaying flesh. George could feel something stirring, as though what little happiness he had was being torn out of him.

"Expecto Patronum!"

A woman's voice cut through the chill darkness pervading Diagon Alley. A silver bird- a falcon- soared through the air and pecked at the dementor. The creature threw up its arms to guards itself from the bird's talons before fleeing back into the shadows of the alleyway, where it flew upward and off into the night, leaving George dizzy in the snow as he quickly lost consciousness. The last thing he remembered was a woman rushing forward and kneeling at his side as she told him he would be alright.

* * *

 ** _Author's Notes_**

 ** _Well, after banging this out at... 4:53am, I am exhausted. I've had this fic sitting on my computer since 10/2/2016, and I finally got the initiative to clean it up, look it over and publish it. It's a thousand years too late, considering how old the Harry Potter fandom is, and how many fics there are of George and his patronus (or lack thereof) but I was bored, and needed a break from my other projects. Still, I'm hoping I can find a decent cover pic for this story. And I sort of have an idea for another chapter, so we'll see where that goes._**

 ** _I wasn't expecting this story to be so damned sad but... all well._**

 ** _Here's some sad music to go with this sad story. Just for funsies, of course._**

 ** _all the kids are depressed-Jeremy Zucker_**

 ** _the broken hearts club-gnash_**

 ** _i don't wanna know her-timmies_**

 ** _Through the Valley-Shawn Jones_**

 ** _The Mystic-Adam Jensen_**

 ** _Houdini-nothing,nowhere_**

 ** _black heart-nothing,nowhere_**

 ** _Thanks for reading._**


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing George knew was that he had a terrible headache. Forget his name, his life, and his sense of self, the pain in his cranium was so intense that it seemed to block everything else out. Sadly, this didn't last, and bit by bit he regained his memory. The first thing that came to him was his name: George Weasley. The second thing he remembered was his brother's name: Fred.

And then everything else dropped on him like a ton of bricks, including his encounter with the dementor.

He bolted upright, his blankets falling away as he clutched at his head, which throbbed painfully. He was back in his loft above the joke shop, and he heard someone talking from the living room.

"-he's just been under a lot of pressure. I'm sure he missed you very much," said a woman's voice.

It was a moment before George recognized it as Verity. She was the one who'd managed to save him from the dementor after his Patronus had failed… but who on earth was she talking to?

"Pressure I can understand- and the gold is all fine and well, but honestly, I just want to see him," said another voice; that of a much older woman.

It was Molly Weasley, and if George was right, Verity was speaking to her via the woodstove in the living room adjacent to his bedroom. With heavy arms and shaky legs, he made his way out of his room as quickly as he could without falling down.

'Think I understand Harry's reaction to the dementors a bit better, now,' George thought to himself as he rounded the corner.

Sure enough, Verity was sitting cross legged on the floor, and Molly Weasley's head was hovering in the crackling flames within the large iron woodstove. The young blonde shop assistant was picking at the corner of a large, expensive rug as she spoke to Molly. Verity looked awfully uncomfortable as the elder witch spoke at length about her worry for her son.

"It all just seems so unfair," Molly said, "I didn't lose just one son, I lost both of them… poor Georgie… I saw his name in the paper again, you know, but it was just another scandal. The Daily Prophet has been having a field day, dragging his good name through the dirt. Now that the war's over little enough sates a reader's appetite, so they'll be looking to slander him good and proper, I expect."

"Well, let's hope they do," George said dryly, stepping from the shadows of the corridor, "all this publicity's been good for business."

"George?! How are you walking around?!" Mrs. Weasley cried.

"Geor- I mean, Mr. Weasley, you should be in bed," Verity said, her eyes wide as she quickly got to her feet.

George smiled, but it only seemed to set his mother on edge. Mrs. Weasley had developed a few new wrinkles in the time since he'd last seen her, and she had a few more grey hairs, but it was still her, right down to that disapproving frown.

"'Lo, mum. Long time, no see. Did you get my last deposit?"

"Of course I did, but that's no excuse! You've been avoiding me, young man! Gold or no, you are still my son! Drinking, fighting, gambling! Where will it end?! Just last week, I heard you spent the night in a Ministry Detention Cell for dueling in public! And then I look up at the clock, and your hand is pointing directly to 'Mortal Peril'! Well? What do you have to say for yourself?"

Molly Weasley's anger manifested in a tirade much like those she used to give the twins after one of their experiments blew up (sometimes literally) in their faces. Normally, George could've shrugged it off, or apologized, but this was different in a few ways. First off, George was an adult, and his business was his own. Secondly, his headache was only getting worse… and thirdly, Mrs. Weasley didn't sound all that angry. Sure, her words were much the same as one would expect from her, but from the way she said them, and the look in her eye, George surmised that she was just glad to see he was still alive.

"You and I both know that the Prophet has never been all that reliable," George muttered, stepping forward to kneel in front of the woodstove, as his legs felt as though he were about to give way. When he got to his knees he nearly fell over, but Verity grabbed him before he could hit the floor, steadily helping him get on the same level as Molly's floating head.

Up close, the ravages of time were even more apparent to George as he traced the wrinkles on her forehead, doing his best to avoid her hard brown gaze.

"I didn't get any of that information from the Prophet," Molly said shortly, "I heard it from your father. Perhaps you've forgotten, but he still works at the Ministry. When you cause a ruckus, I'm bound to find out."

A small part of George wanted to simply tell his mother off. He wanted to insist that he was his own man, and tell her to stop worrying so much, but the more he took in her familiar features, the more he realized that it would be the height of folly. Molly Weasley was as stubborn as a lioness, and twice as proud.

"I don't gamble-" George began.

"And what of the drinking and dueling?" Molly demanded.

"I'll admit to drinking a bit too much on occasion, but I didn't start that duel! That bastard, Theodore Nott, was in the pub, talking a load of rubbish about muggleborns! There were at least four others who pulled their wands on him, but no one wanted to jinx the little git because he has his daddy's money!"

George balled his fists in his lap, trying his best to dam up the rage that seeped from him. As Molly watched him, her expression became sad once again.

"Be that as it may, it doesn't mean you should risk your business. I've heard he has a money grubbing goblin lawyer on retainer. What if he tries to sue you?" Mrs. Weasley asked.

"Not a problem. All the people that wanted to jinx him said they would testify in my favor… and the owner of the tavern actually made an investment in the shop after that little spectacle!" George let loose a dry laugh, only to feel it die prematurely. He was suddenly struck with vertigo as the room began to spin.

"Mr. Weasley, are you alright?"

Verity leaned in close to George as he shook his head and cleared his throat.

"Sorry mum, but I think I'll have to let you go. Not feeling the greatest at the moment."

"Just promise me you'll be careful," Molly pressed him as he put his hand on the wire-wrapped handle of the wood stove door.

George gave her the brightest, warmest, most mischievous smile he could muster and chirped, "Of course!"

"And you'll come and visit me soon?!" she called as he shut the wood stove.

"Of course. I'll visit you all this weekend, I promise!"

With the gong of iron on iron, the stove door clanged shut, leaving George kneeling on the floor. Verity was still holding him upright, and with a sigh, George fell against her.

"Thanks for saving me," he mumbled.

"Of course, Mr. Weasley," Verity said stiffly, "it's my job to look after you."

"Verity, please… we're alone now. Just… call me George."

The headache only got worse and worse, but Verity put her cold hands upon George's forehead and pulled him into her embrace, and it immediately became more bearable. For a single, solitary moment, George felt as though the world might not be such a terrible place. Of course, the chances of him being able to properly verbalize that thought were nil with how his head was swimming, so he stayed silent, breathing deeply of the woolen sweater Verity was wearing. Her lilac perfume seemed to unravel the tightness in his chest.

Without thinking, George held onto her, burying his face into her midriff with his head resting on her lap, and in a matter of moments, he was snoring. Verity smiled and gently ran her fingers through George's messy hair. With his overlong mane and untrimmed facial hair, he had a ruggedly handsome look about him, but what intrigued her most was the way he slept.

In all waking hours of the day, George Weasley could hardly muster anything but a dry cynicism that people mistook for genuine humor, or happiness. But when he was asleep, and the pressures of life were a thing of the past, Verity would sometimes see a cheeky grin spread across his face. It reminded her of the way he used to be, back before his brother had died. While the rest of the world slept, Verity watched over George, and she knew that somewhere within him, the young man who loved practical jokes, laughter, and, making other people smile was still alive and well, even if only in his dreams.

"Good night, George," she whispered, smirking to herself as another broad smile crept across his face.

* * *

 ** _And there I go getting all sappy again. Here's the official ending of this story that didn't really needed another telling, but what the hell, why not?_**


End file.
